


The Mark of the Lamb

by victorine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hannibal has a secret, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will's not gonna let him keep it, flashback to florentine sulking, gratuitous references to mongooses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 14:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12483792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: Hannibal and Will are healed, healthy and hot for each other. Unfortunately for Hannibal, this means exposing slightly more than he wanted to.ORThe story of Hannibal Lecter's stupidest decision (that doesn't involve a bone saw).





	The Mark of the Lamb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TCbook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCbook/gifts).



> This is a (immensely belated) birthday present for my darling [TCbook](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TCbook/pseuds/TCbook) who has waited patiently for me to get my act together and finish this fic. Honey, you are a treasure and a delight every single day, and I'm so glad to know you. Happy birthday <3

It is one year and two months since the Dragon, the cliff, and blood in the moonlight. Since Will pulled Hannibal into the water and dragged him back out again with the same stubborn determination. 

One year and one month since Hannibal awoke to Will's deathless phrase, “Oh thank fuck, took you long enough.” 

Five months since they were both healed enough to move to one of Hannibal's overseas safe houses. 

Three months since Hannibal first kissed Will, tentatively until Will grabbed the back of his head and turned it filthy and desperate, pausing only to murmur, “Thank fuck, took you long enough.” 

Two weeks since making out and mutual masturbation stopped being enough for Will. 

And exactly a minute and a half since Will communicated this opinion to Hannibal. 

From downstairs in the tastefully (in Hannibal's opinion) over-decorated (in Will's) villa, there is a crash of furniture, followed by a snarl of frustration.  

“If I ever find the guy who invented button flies, I'm gonna slit his throat and request clever bastard casserole for dinner.” 

This is followed by an indulgent chuckle, and Hannibal's voice, slightly ragged but soothing, saying, “You were the one who suggested adding some more casual items to my wardrobe. However, we can stop while I retrieve some scissors and you may cut me out of them, if you wish.” 

There is silence for a moment, and then a slightly thoughtful declaration that, “Ok, that's something we're gonna revisit, but right now just get these off yourself, Doctor Steady Hands, while I rip this stupid shirt off.” 

“Yes, dear.” 

Apparently the process of getting undressed requires several pauses for making out and groping, judging by the repeated outbreak of moans and requests to not stop, never stop, _oh god_ , that issue from the direction of the living room. However, eventually both men seem to be naked enough to proceed, and the sound of two bodies attempting to walk while twined around each other moves upstairs towards the bedroom.

This room is perhaps the most opulent in the house (save the kitchen, it goes without saying), its walls covered in seafoam green paper with the finest gold lines swirling through it, the furniture  dark wood and plush fabric, the accents all burnished the same gold as the paper. At its centre is an obscenely large bed, inevitably covered in high-thread-count linens and piled invitingly with silk and velvet cushions.

Will has on more than one occasion expressed his certitude that Hannibal's bedroom would win the award for “most antlers in a confined space” by some considerable margin.

He has mixed feelings about this room. On one hand, it serves to remind him that he is cohabiting with a man whose aesthetic tastes could not be more different from his own and he wonders if he will lose himself to Hannibal's design in this as he has in other things. On the other, on the – embarrassingly numerous – occasions Will has found himself standing in Hannibal's doorway in the early hours of the morning, it has become increasingly difficult not to simply slide beneath those ludicrous sheets and press himself against Hannibal's warm and no doubt welcoming flesh.  

Will has never cared much about aesthetics anyway.

“Oof.”

“Careful, Doctor, I’d rather you weren’t concussed the first time we sleep together.” Will places a hand to the back of Hannibal’s head, which has just connected rather violently with the doorjamb, as a result of Hannibal’s enthusiastic attempts to drag Will into his bedroom without taking a break from kissing him stupid. He then walks them back towards the bed, taking the chance to grope Hannibal’s ass through his overpriced briefs, and then breaks from kissing him long enough to communicate an important point. “I know you probably had this all planned out, fancy dinner, candles, rose petals. You in a godawful suit, me in some ridiculous tight pants you’d picked out special…”

“Will…”

“And I’m gonna be really into that some other night, you can seduce me all you like, I won’t even complain if none of the food’s in English…”

“Will…”

“But right now I just really have to fuck you. Or you fuck me. Or both. But right n-mmmff-”

Will is fortuitously cut off from this embarrassing stream of babble by Hannibal kissing him soundly, before lifting him off the floor. He does this with an ease that really shouldn’t be possible for a man only recently recovered from a gut shot, and then further proves his physical prowess by flinging his paramour bodily onto the bed. Which uncompromising approach gives Will barely any time to reflect that if they’d tried that on his old bed in Wolf Trap, the whole thing might well have collapsed beneath him, before Hannibal looms above him, caging him with his arms.

“Show off,” he scolds, rolling his eyes and leaning up for a kiss in the same moment.

They writhe together for a while, Hannibal believing Will needs time to adjust to the novelty of being naked together, and Will trying to figure out how he went so many years without realising that broad shoulders, chest hair and the huge dick he’s just released from Hannibal’s underwear is the world’s sexiest combination. The chest hair in particular has Will’s attention, the sensation of it against his own perennially hairless pecs one he is instantly addicted to. He has the urge to investigate further, and takes advantage of Hannibal’s current focus on biting not-so-gently at his jugular, to flip their positions without warning.

The expression on Hannibal’s face once he’s regained his bearings tells Will two things:

  1. Hannibal has underestimated exactly how much strength Will had regained since the fall.
  2. Hannibal has just discovered his kink for being manhandled.



Will considers scolding him for thinking him weak for half a second, then decides not to waste time when his prize is directly beneath him. As he reaches out to stroke a finger through the silvering curls, he’s gratified to hear Hannibal’s breath hitch, and his pupils blow impossibly bigger as Will grazes a nipple with the edge of his fingernail. He’s only further emboldened by Hannibal reaching out himself to card a hand through Will’s curls, mirroring his exploration of his chest, and by the encouraging smile that spreads across Hannibal’s lips. He leans down and nuzzles against hard flesh and soft curls, letting his tongue flick out to taste Hannibal’s peaked and pert nipples. Hannibal gasps, and Will grins at this newfound sensitivity, suddenly determined to map every last part of Hannibal’s body, what he likes, what makes him feel good.

If the novelty of wanting to make Hannibal feel good with no other agenda crosses Will’s mind, he doesn’t let it distract him from the task in hand.

He kisses lower, tracing his lips down Hannibal’s ribs and bestowing a kiss on each one. The change of position causes Hannibal’s hand to slide out of his hair, and Hannibal allows himself to settle back against the mattress, feeling sparks across his skin with every soft, sweet kiss Will places upon it.  He can’t hold back a moan, though, as Will reaches his stomach and he feels his tongue dip lightly into his navel. Will looks up at the noise, with a smug smile curling his lips, and holds eye contact as he descends once again towards Hannibal's hips.

Will is immensely enjoying the effect he is having, the evidence of which he can feel clearly as it swells beside his throat. With a wicked smirk he decides this is the perfect opportunity for a miniature reckoning, and carefully avoids Hannibal’s cock, instead moving his soft kisses into the dip of Hannibal's hip, before letting his tongue emerge to lick over the sensitive skin.

With any other lover, Hannibal would have been disappointed in the shameless squirming Will's ministrations cause. With Will, he is entirely too absorbed by the thrill of arousal coursing through him to care. However, as he wriggles and feels the sheets shift beneath his ass, Hannibal has a terrible realisation…

Sadly for Hannibal, the resultant increase in squirming only deepens his predicament, as Will takes it as a hint that the great Hannibal the Cannibal might be ticklish. Grinning with delight, he decides to test his theory immediately, moving his lips lower, brushing them against the outside of Hannibal’s hip, towards his currently concealed ass.

Panic is not an emotion Hannibal has much experience with, which is perhaps why his reaction to Will's movement further into dangerous territory is not as smooth as could be hoped. Instinctively, he shoots out a hand and grabs Will's hair, pulling him roughly back from his southwards trajectory. Will yelps in response and looks up at Hannibal in surprise, only to see something quite unexpected behind his lover’s eyes. Hannibal looks… well, on anybody else Will would have said he looks sheepish. Nervous even. But neither of those are emotions Will can quite conceive of Hannibal experiencing. Unless…

“You’re hiding something.”

Without giving Hannibal a chance to deny it, Will immediately dives back to where he had been kissing, trying to find the ticklish spot again. He moves his lips lower, gripping Hannibal's hips and trying to get him to turn over.

Hannibal should have known he had no chance of fooling his cunning boy. Will won’t stop now until he finds Hannibal's secret out. Unless Hannibal chooses to throw him off and risk permanently ruining things between them. And, as Will's tongue relentlessly flicks and slithers against his skin, he knows such a thing is impossible. Will feels the moment Hannibal’s resistance shatters, grinning in victory as Hannibal finally allows himself to be rolled to his belly… and then feels his triumph abruptly turn to confusion as he locks eyes with Hannibal’s bare ass for the first time.

“Hannibal... what… is that?”

  

* * *

 

It is seven months since the kitchen, the knife, the gift that wasn't wanted.  

Three weeks since the move from France to Italy, to Il Mostro's old hunting grounds.

Three hours since Hannibal tired of Bedelia's half-lidded contempt and left her to the hollow grandeur of their apartments and whatever remains of her liver function.

Two hours and fifty five minutes since he spotted a stray dog and found himself sorely in need of distraction.

Hannibal Lecter is drunk. Admittedly, to the average observer (and oh, how Hannibal wishes for the above average kind) this is not apparent. He strides down these mildly disreputable yet undeniably beautiful backstreets with the same leonine grace he traversed the frozen streets of Baltimore. There is not a hitch nor a sway in his step and his countenance is smooth and placid, the picture of a man untroubled by life's trivial problems.

 Which is true, technically. Having one's previously-assumed-to-be-impervious heart broken is far from trivial indeed. And it is the only possible explanation for what the good Doctor Lecter does next.  

Hannibal has almost passed the shop entirely when his attention is captured, and his head swings round first, before the rest of his body catches up a moment later. (Being Hannibal Lecter, this looks rather more like an elegantly-executed dance move than the result of indecision and so its comic potential goes sadly unfulfilled.) He stalks towards the shopfront, apparently bewitched by the artwork displayed behind its glass. Which would not, in itself, be anything particularly curious were it not for the fact that the source of his fascination is a somewhat modest-looking tattoo parlour. 

Looking past the inebriated, captivated cannibal, closer examination reveals the expected array of stylised and garish designs, many of them displayed on photos of snatches of flesh. An arm with a rose here, a hip with a skull there, and, somewhat unfortunately, a peacock fanning its feathers just above the swell of someone’s buttocks. However, it is not these which have the good doctor so enraptured. Instead, his eyes are fixed upon a small collection of delicately-wrought line drawings, of such quality that they could match those in Hannibal’s own sketchbooks. (Well, almost. He is not yet so drunk as to be entirely nonsensical.)

Apparently seized by an idea, Hannibal turns abruptly from the window and marches through the parlour’s threshold, to the confusion of the young man and woman inside, who are not used to middle-aged, obviously wealthy, unapologetically overdressed customers breezing into their place of work on a weekday afternoon. Of course, the appearance of Hannibal the Cannibal would in fact be perfectly valid cause for alarm, but news of the doctor’s crimes has not reached far enough to trouble these two, and so instead of alerting the authorities or running the newcomer through with a tattoo gun, they simply give him an assessing glance and decide he must be the father of some recent customer, here to remonstrate with them for marking his precious baby’s skin.

After a moment or two of _not_ being lectured about the barbarism of permanently marking one’s skin, however, they realise that this most unusual customer is here with the not-so-unusual intention of acquiring such a permanent mark for himself. He demands to know the identity of the artist behind the tattoos he had been so intrigued by, and offers a respectful handshake to the young woman when she identifies herself, drawing her into a discussion of her training and influences.

There is some confusion, therefore, when it becomes clear that Hannibal wishes not for one of her drawings to be etched into his skin – the very idea! – but one of his own. However, pen and paper is quickly furnished, and while Hannibal takes a moment to sneer (mostly internally) at the quality of both, he takes a seat and bends to his work. As he draws, a certain manic quality infects his movements, strokes coming quickly and with many a wild flourish as the image comes together. And just to add to the image of barely-contained madness, the occasional word slips out as he is working – _teacup, perfume, Patroclus_ – the little hitch in his voice on the last one drawing a knowing look between both tattooists. 

Finally, he is finished and hands the sketch to the somewhat stunned young woman, who takes it gingerly and looks down to inspect the mess that is sure to await. Instead, she is pleasantly surprised to find a series of fine lines, soft and sharp at the same time. It is beautiful and while not as good as her own work – the very idea! – she can see why he was so insistent on using his own design. 

She smiles softly at him, recognition of a fellow artist, and shows him into one of the back rooms. Where, presumably, she does an admirable job of inking the FBI's most-wanted backside, because when she emerges to escort Hannibal to the payment desk, she does so with all her vital organs in place.

Left behind is the sketch, which the woman will keep as a prop for when she surely tells the story of the clearly-heartbroken client she worked on that day (her impression of him breaking into tears and describing a beautiful yet cruel boy with dog hair where his heart should be is, to give her credit, extraordinarily accurate). She has no idea that it would be worth significant amounts to collectors of a certain kind of gruesome artefact… or to a blue-eyed man currently recuperating in a hospital on the other side of the world. To her, it is simply an amusing souvenir, admittedly oddly cute in its own right; a perfect likeness of a small, furry mongoose.

 

* * *

 

“An homage.”

Hannibal hears Will shift above him, feels the warmth of him as he leans in to get a better look at his fluffy avatar, and Hannibal wonders if he remembers that conversation, if he felt the same spark between them then, felt as if he had just come home for the first time in years, in decades, all because of a shared smile.

“You frightened me a bit, that day,” Will says, a smile in his voice.

His beautiful, ever-vigilant boy. Of course he remembers.

“Did you see into me so easily, even then?”

“No, I think it wasn’t until the organ harvester that I knew. Longer ‘til I let myself accept it, of course. Until I let myself accept lots of things. Like the way, even then, I was frightened by the way you knew every part of me without even trying. And terrified by the fact that I didn’t entirely want you to stop.”

Both men feel the sting of wasted years and their own stubborn stupidity.

“Did you know,” Will says, stroking a finger lightly against the mark, fascinated by this proof of his effect on Hannibal, “when a tattoo is removed, the ink is broken into small enough particles that they can be absorbed by your white blood cells. They pollute your bloodstream.”

“I am aware of the phenomenon,” Hannibal responds, voice uncharacteristically unsteady, “though it is not the reason I would never endure such a procedure.”

“It's interesting though, isn't it? You have me etched into your very skin, and should you ever try to have me removed, I'll simply burrow further in.” Hannibal feels Will get to his knees and kneel close in behind him before he speaks again. “Buster used to get ticks, you know. Always running off into the long grass, come back with one of the little fuckers dug in fast. So I learned, there’s only one way to remove a tick, Hannibal. Grab it and pull; straight up, don’t twist. You know what happens if you twist? Part of it stays embedded, a lingering irritant. So my question is: would you like to pull me straight off or,” Will leans in and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Hannibal's tattoo, laving his tongue across the surface. Hannibal can only, to his distant horror, writhe and mewl Will's name in response. “Would you like me to twist in even deeper?”

“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal moans again, all other words escaping him. 

“Mmm,” Will hums, a laugh in his tone, “that's not really an answer, is it, Doctor?” Will shifts again, and Hannibal has a horrible moment of thinking that he is leaving, before Will sinks his teeth into his opposite cheek, precisely mirroring the position of the tattoo. 

It is a bright, fierce flare of pain and it brings Hannibal back to himself enough to answer Will's question. “Deeper, _mylimasis_ , always, always deeper,” he cries, the truth of it singing between them.

As the words spill from him, Will unlatches his teeth and gives a gentle kiss to what will surely be a livid mark. His mark. He finds himself deeply taken by the image of Hannibal, littered with suck marks and bites, a trail of berry and violet against his bronze skin. It's one he will share with his squirming lover, and quite soon, but right now there are other things he has planned. 

“Good answer. I think you deserve a reward.”  

That he cannot predict Will Graham is a constant source of both delight and frustration to Hannibal. Enough so that when Will mentions a reward, Hannibal has genuinely no idea whether it will come in the form of a bite, a kiss, perhaps even a quick snap of his neck and the reckoning so long promised to him. 

That it in fact comes in the form of Will unhesitatingly spreading his ass cheeks and licking a broad, hot stripe against exposed, fluttering flesh is startling even to the unflappable Hannibal Lecter, whose mind fails to supply a single thought in response. Instead, his body takes over and shudders, and writhes, and grips at the sheets as Hannibal moans, long and low and guttural, as Will begins to take him apart.

He works Hannibal open with his tongue, pressing deep and slow and horribly, teasingly patient. Hannibal finds himself pushing back against him, desperate for more and on the edge of begging for it when he feels Will push a finger in beside his tongue, beginning to stretch him. One finger quickly becomes two, and Will removes his tongue, distracting Hannibal from the burn he is beginning to feel.

Will is panting from his exertions, having discovered that breathing while rimming someone is going to take a little practice. However, he recovers admirably and, still scissoring his fingers deeper and deeper into Hannibal, asks, with his usual suave phrasing, “Please fucking god, tell me you’ve got lube in this damn place.”

Hannibal rolls his eyes, at least as much from exasperation as the feeling of Will inside him, and manages to lift an arm high enough to point at a bedside table. “Drawer, towards the back.” Then he adds, just to hear Will’s reaction, “I have arranged a small selection, you may use whichever takes your fancy.”

He can almost hear the way Will’s brain shudders to a halt at that, and can’t help but grin into his pillow when he finally responds, “Fuck, you’re perfect, aren’t you?” He also can’t help but whine a little as Will gently removes his fingers and spreads himself across his back to reach inside the drawer, apparently uncaring for any other criteria than which bottle is nearest.

He takes the time to leave another bite, this time on Hannibal’s shoulder, deep enough to break the skin this time. He soothes it with a kiss, and trails more of them, blood-tinged, down Hannibal’s spine, nipping at the Verger brand a little before he can stop himself. Finally he reaches the tattoo again, opening his lips and sucking at it gently, worshipping the mark that says Hannibal is his, and he is Hannibal’s, and they have been since the moment they met.

Only when Hannibal has gone boneless with pleasure does Will finally deem him ready to be stretched further, slicking two fingers with a liberal amount of lube and firmly inserting both into Hannibal, still loosened from his earlier ministrations. Hannibal pushes back, greedy for the contact, for Will inside him in ways that are utterly, gloriously non-metaphorical, and Will gives it to him, enthralled by the way Hannibal’s muscles shift as he rocks against the bed. All that power, utterly at Will’s mercy – it would take a far better man that Will Graham is, or ever pretended to be, not to feel intoxicated at that.

“Will… Will…” Hannibal is gasping, begging for him inside now. “Will, _please_.”

Said man raises up to grab Hannibal by the hair and yanks his head back, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Oh no, that's not my name, is it, love?” 

Hannibal arches back, mind struggling to understand Will's meaning through its current fog of lust-induced idiocy, takes a moment to catch up. And then another moment to believe what is being asked, until Will bites at his earlobe, quite viciously, and Hannibal cries out, “M… mongoose!”

Will grins, extremely satisfied to have caused Hannibal to lose any last vestiges of dignity, and runs his tongue along the shell of his ear as he lines up against his hole. “Good boy.” And with that, he moulds his hands to Hannibal’s hips and holds him steady as he slides inside.

He seats himself within Hannibal in one long, smooth motion and they both groan, low and shuddering, as they join together. And then for long moments there is nothing but the sound of breaths mingling, as Will drapes himself over Hannibal's back, cages him with his arms, waits for the overwhelming fact of being _inside Hannibal Lecter_ to balance out to a manageable level of surreality. It is only when Hannibal moves his hand to hook his little finger around Will's thumb that he shakes it off and presses a kiss to Hannibal's nape, nuzzling into sweat-slicked skin. 

“All right?” he asks, still a little breathless. 

“Never less,” Hannibal says, and he feels Will tense a little before he adds, allowing his smirk to bleed into his tone, “and never, never more.” 

“Bastard,” Will growls, and bites down on Hannibal's shoulder as he thrusts in deep. 

Hannibal is thrilled to discover that his mongoose has no intention of taking it easy, first time or not. Will snaps his hips, grips Hannibal's wrists, works every angle until he finds Hannibal's prostate and hits it unrelentingly once he has. And Hannibal meets him with every thrust, pushing back to feel him deeper, undulating beneath Will even as his eyes roll back in his head and everything in his mind contracts to a litany of _mine, Will, love, mine_. 

_Mine_ , echoes in Will's head too, as he drives Hannibal towards orgasm. He wants him to come first, to feel good, to crave this closeness in the same way he's always craved to crawl inside Will's mind. He snakes an arm around Hannibal’s mid-section, and pulls him upwards so that they are flush together, and then slides his hand down to take a grip of Hannibal’s cock and begins stroking it, drawing a noise closer to a howl than a moan from his near-delirious lover.

“Did you think about this then?” he asks, and Hannibal feels his grip tighten slightly, a firm slide from root to tip that has him perilously close to coming. “When you let yourself be marked, did you think about how this would feel?”

Hannibal nods, desperately trying to hold back against the sensation of Will filling him at one end and stroking him mercilessly at the other, then lets his head fall back against Will’s shoulder. Will drops a kiss onto his slack, reddened mouth and then, “Did you think about it before? Before the kitchen, before prison, before everything? Did you want it the whole time?”

Hannibal forces his eyes open, meeting Will’s ferocious gaze and cannot fathom the idea of not being in love with this man. “From the very instant you growled at me in Uncle Jack’s office,” he breathes, and it draws a moan from Will who descends once again to kiss him deeply. Hannibal surges up into it and grinds back onto Will in the same movement, causing them both to gasp and pant into each other. He feels his orgasm building, a hot swell of pleasure, and knows Will is close too, his rhythm stuttering, his grip tightening, and then they are coming together, pressing taut and hot and so good Will’s vision whites out and Hannibal screams his name into the humid air. 

Afterwards, they lie together, both heaving for breath in rather unattractive fashion, and covered in fluids best not described in detail, and neither of them giving the remotest damn because this is happiness, real and undiluted and neither has ever truly felt it before.

Until Hannibal – his usual impeccable timing apparently on orgasm-induced holiday – attempts to ruin everything.

“Bedelia laughed.” 

Hannibal realises his mistake as the words are leaving his mouth – in the midst of the afterglow is probably not the place to mention his “ex-wife.” He tenses and waits for Will to turn cold, or vituperative. 

Instead, he simply rolls onto his side and pillows his head on Hannibal's chest, playing with the chest hair (which is definitely now _a thing_ for him, who knew). “Remind me why we haven't eaten her yet?”

Hannibal’s dick does its very best to get hard again at that, but sadly eating human flesh does not give one superhuman refractory times and it does nothing but twitch and give up. “She will keep for the time being,” he tells Will, running a hand down his back to sit possessively on that long-coveted ass. “I hope to be occupied with rather more pleasurable activities for the foreseeable future.”

Will flashes a grin at that, ever-amused at Hannibal’s properness in the face of depravity. “Hmm, yes, I think Mrs Fell has done quite enough cock-blocking for now, hasn’t she?” He tweaks a nipple, a tiny retribution for Hannibal’s attempt to replace him, and delights in the gasp it draws from above him. How many people have ever made Hannibal Lecter gasp, he wonders, and does it again, just because he can, before asking, “She laughed, huh? Didn’t know she was capable.”

“More of a scoff, perhaps.” He neglects to mention the words that accompanied said reaction, along the lines of wondering whether this would be a more effective cure for his pining than evenings spent weeping into homemade gelato. “She is not easily given to frivolity, nor accepting of it in others.”

“Getting a tattoo was frivolous?”

“My love for you was, to her.”

“Oh.” Will blushes terribly prettily and Hannibal makes a note to make him do so as often as possible. He quickly recovers, though, and a smirk slides onto his face. “You know, the last thing I would want is to agree with your ex, but… a mongoose, Hannibal, really?” 

“It is an image that holds great significance to me, Will, a fonder memory than those I had been dwelling on.”

“Hmm,” Will hums in assent, though still with an edge of unconvinced amusement in his voice that Hannibal finds a little irritating in the face of his remembered heartbreak. But then he cups Hannibal's face in his hands and tells his cannibal this: “You are the most dangerous man on this planet, and also the biggest nerd. And I am in love with you.”  

And Hannibal forgets quite how he could ever be irritated with Will Graham, and soon forgets everything except how good they feel together.

 

Epilogue:

 

Will has always enjoyed watching Hannibal dance around his kitchen. He can, now, admit that he was not just fascinated but attracted by the controlled, elegant, entirely competent way the man works, even back in Baltimore. Back when he was hiding the world's biggest crush, even from himself.  

But there's an even bigger thrill in watching Hannibal have to compensate for the slight stiffness in his movements. Stiffness that Will is suffering from too, the result of doing little but wringing an improbable number of orgasms out of each other for the past three weeks. They've barely come up for air, save to cook, and to gather provisions, and for Will to run a little errand that he hasn't told Hannibal about yet. He can't seem to wipe the gleeful smirk off his face, and Hannibal is surely aware, because he's swaying his hips in an entirely shameless way that's causing Will's dick to make some interesting points about how necessary it is to eat lunch anyway… 

“You know, lunch is an overrated meal, I think.”

Hannibal merely raises an eyebrow. “You think,” he echoes, dryly.

Will sees Hannibal’s eyebrow and raises both his own in return, adding the always-reliable under-the-lashes-puppy-eyes for maximum effect. “There’s plenty of other ways we can get filled up,” he says, utterly shameless after a mere few weeks of unbridled sexual hedonism.

Hannibal smirks at the pun – it is a delight to see Will engaging in forms of humour other than barbed sarcasm – but decides not to give in to temptation quite yet. “Much as I have enjoyed the recent disruption to our schedule, dear Will, I believe attempting to survive solely on the nourishment of each other’s bodies may be less a romantic notion and more a possibility best left untested, in our case.”

Will fixes him with an unamused look, the one that says, _only one of us ever tried to make stir-fry out of the other and it wasn’t me, bucko._ Which is usually followed by Hannibal’s own silent response of, _remember that time you tried to feed me to your fish friends?_ , and generally ends either in furious sulking or furious sex or, if they are feeling particularly recalcitrant, both. However, Hannibal is quite serious about them requiring a decent meal, and decides to defuse Will’s temper by traversing the distance between them to kneel, penitent, at Will’s feet. This earns him an exasperated but fond smile, which encourages him to reach out and grasp at Will’s hips.

“Ow!”

Hannibal, never less than entirely overdramatic, is immediately concerned for Will’s health, shooting up from his crouching position to begin a thorough examination. “Tell me where it hurts, _mylimasis_ , be as specific as possible, and I will endeavour to relieve your pain as much as I can. Do you need to lie down, I will carry you-”

Hannibal is fortuitously cut off from this embarrassing stream of babble by Will slapping his hand across his mouth and grinning at him in amusement. “There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just a bit tender on my hip is all.”

Hannibal attempts to ask why on earth that would be but given the obstruction of Will’s hand, it comes out as, “aaah unuff eeesaaat?” which frustrates him immensely and causes him to nip at the flesh of Will’s palm.

“Ow again! I’m not telling you anything if you continue to injure me, Hannibal.”

“Will, you will tell me this instant or I will retrieve the scopolamine from my kit and you will not get a choice in the matter.”

“You do that and I promise I will send pictures of you eating processed cheese to Freddie Lounds, yes I caught you at it the other night and yes of course I got photographic evidence.”

They stare each other down, two idiots equally matched in stubbornness, and it is quite possible that they would stay there until they collapsed from hunger and exhaustion. Fortunately, the smoke alarm decides to join in the discussion and won’t be ignored, so they are forced to down arms while Hannibal removes the smoking remains of lunch from the stove and Will batters the alarm with a broom handle (possibly imagining it to be Hannibal’s face).

He finally gets the thing to stop shrieking and looks over to find Hannibal watching him with such open concern on his face that Will melts beneath it (though the – possibly uncharitable – thought does briefly occur that he should never have revealed the power of the puppy eyes to his shamelessly manipulative partner).

“Oh, fine,” he says, rolling his eyes towards his worried cannibal, and coming to stand next to him at the counter. “Remember yesterday when I left you at the grocery store?”

“The ‘overpriced and pretentious altar to foodie self-indulgence,’ I believe were your exact words.”

“Yeah, that place.”

“So you were not, in fact, ‘going by the park to see if there were any interesting dogs’ as you claimed?”

“No, and I'm not sure whether the fact that you bought that so easily is an insult to you or me.”

“If you were not indulging your canine obsession, then, where were you?”

“Seeing a man about a mongoose.”

Will grins, clearly well-pleased with himself but is met with only a blank stare.

“I don't understand.”

Will sighs, and smiles, and pulls down his sweatpants – gently – to reveal a gauze pad taped to his left hip. Hannibal smiles too, soft and delighted, and reaches out a single finger to stroke, ever-so-lightly, across the bandage.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“I didn't want you to see until it had healed a little better.”

“That explains your eagerness to tie me up last night.”

“Well, yeah, and I'd been looking for an excuse to do it anyway.”

“May I see?”

Will huffs a little sigh, but makes no objection as Hannibal eases the gauze from his skin to reveal reddened, inflamed flesh and, at its centre, a small, delicate tattoo.

“A snake?”

“I seriously considered _Property of Hannibal Lecter_ , just to see your face, but I thought that would likely either get me arrested or sectioned, so this seemed a better alternative.”

Hannibal doesn’t react to the joke because he can’t, frozen in place by the image of a serpent he has known all his life, slightly crude in its appearance but unmistakeable. He murmurs, low and wondering, “Will, this is…”

“I saw it when I visited your childhood; the Lecter family crest right there on the front gate. Very imposing.” He smiles down at Hannibal, clearly amused by the affectations of the landed gentry.

“You drew this?” Hannibal is very aware of how close he is to tears at this moment.

“Eidetic memory comes in handy every now and then. And I figured, you once said we were family, this just makes it official,” he says, the attempt to keep his tone casual offset by the fire behind his eyes.

“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal breathes, and cannot help placing a kiss, feather light, against the lurid skin.

“Ow,” Will complains, but there's no heat in it, only fondness, in his smile, in how he caresses a hand through Hannibal's hair, in the way he tugs that hair a little to reposition Hannibal's mouth so he can lean down for a kiss. When they part, there is a mischievous twist to his lips and Hannibal braces for some more of Will’s _humour_.

“If you like that, you’re gonna be really impressed by the one on my back,” Will says, letting his pants pool on the floor and stepping out of them before moving around Hannibal and towards the hallway. He throws a look that can only be described as _coquettish_ over his shoulder and adds, “It’s a full-size portrait of Buster,” before sashaying out of the room, towards the stairs, towards their bedroom.

Hannibal is reasonably certain that this is a bare-faced lie. But, as has often been mentioned, he can never fully predict Will Graham, and it would be remiss of him not to thoroughly examine the man for visual proof. Very thoroughly, and for a number of hours.

Hannibal does not run out of the kitchen. He sprints.


End file.
